


Three Goodbyes

by rostropovich



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich
Summary: Three times Peter Dawson has said goodbye.





	Three Goodbyes

i.

“take care of napoleon,” isaac says mussing up peter’s hair that is a mirror image of his. peter tries to wrestle out of his brother’s hug, but isaac’s beefed up since he came back from basic training. the more he wriggles, the arms clad in a starched and ironed dress uniform hold him tighter until he can no longer balance and the two brothers clumsily fall down onto the silky grasses of dorset. their mother calls to them from the doorstep.

“get _off_!” peter cackles, fists flying.

“ah, ah; what sort of goodbye are your little cat paws flyin’ at me, huh? don’t even know how to make a proper fist.” isaac’s wiggling fingers go to his brother’s stomach and peter lets out a wheeze of laughter, curling in on himself and trying to escape isaac’s grip to no avail. the cold, briny air stings his throat. their mother calls again from the porch, this time authoritative. at that, isaac relents, panting as he stands up. he offers his hand to his brother, who takes it and pulls him up easy.

they hug again, this time sincere. the bittersweet nature of goodbye hasn’t really sunk in with peter, yet. he can’t imagine his brother being gone for so long. but even then, tragedy and death never come to weymouth. he’s only saying goodbye until the end of the war. and wars don’t last forever.

memories of playing catch in the empty lot just east of their house and disputes over who had to venture into the dark, foreboding basement, and bicycle rides next to the drooping scarlet sun and adventures in the abandoned lighthouse, wheal lumina, and sailing lessons with  _moonstone_ , and outrageous impersonations of their father, and spindling lies for the sake of a bond of brothers, and conversations through the vents on the floors, and gory rivalry and gory victory all flash through peter's head. 

isaac pulls away and stares at peter intently, brown eyes roaming over his face, committing him to memory. peter tells him to stop being an idiot and to go already. things far greater than what little weymouth can ever offer him await.

ii.

“thank you for everything,” says the pilot named collins, taking peter’s hand in a firm shake. he’s nearly falling asleep standing at the docks, watching the sea of soldiers leaving the brigade of yachts. moonstone is soiled with oil and blood and sick. she looks how peter feels. and he feels like he’s been gone for months. how’s he going to manage school tomorrow?

“thank you,” says peter. the forlorn pilot gives him a very sad smile and disappears among the crowd. peter watches him leave, until he can no longer see the blue mussed uniform. the docks are eerily silent. the only things that can be heard are the sounds of a great procession of boots thumping on a creaking pier, and the soft night tide lapping at the barnacle - laden hulls and the distant call of a buoy bell somewhere in the black harbour. it is a strange thing to be around thousands of men and still feel trapped in a lonely desolation.

peter can remember standing at the rudder and looking over at the pilot with the soft locks of amber and the inquisitive eyes standing just a small bit taller than peter. they could’ve been brothers.

iii.

“peter victor dawson, if you leave through that door,” rachel dawson pauses as her stern tone falters to the despair swimming beneath. “if you leave, i’ll never forgive you.”

if he stays, he’ll never forgive himself. it’s been two years since a man came to their doorstep, standing in the last drops of the cold ocean tempest. since he took his hat off when peter answered the door and asked to speak to his parents. since the body came back to them. since he could barely recognise his own brother. since no one sat in that chair at the table anymore. since the house went quiet. since he ever saw his mother’s smile meet her eyes.

and it’s been even less since he saw the life drain from his best friend. and now he wakes up screaming, chest heaving as he tries to keep himself from drowning in a sea of oil. the hands of soldiers reach for him but all he can do is hear them scream and smell them burn. the roar of spitfires deafen him, the voices of shivering soldiers haunt him, the feeling of his heart dropping when he realises his friend is dead tears him to pieces. he can’t bear to even look at moonstone anymore.

peter’s mind is made, the papers are signed, the car waits rumbling outside on the dirt road. his father sits at the red kitchen table, eyes staring at nothing. peter knows it’s cruel to do this; they’ve lost one son already and they’re watching their youngest follow into his grave.

he moves for the front door and his mother lets out a wail, clearing the kitchen in a few hurried strides. she holds onto him with a vice grip as if Death himself waits just beyond the front garden. “no! peter, please!” she sobs bitterly and peter’s heart breaks. there’s nothing worse than seeing his mother cry. he swore to himself, once, that he would never see her cry again. but this is a sacrifice he has to make. for himself and for isaac and for george and for britain. “i won’t let you go!”

a hand rests on his shoulder and peter’s eyes rise from his mother to his father. he peels his wife off of his last son and holds her. “go on now, son,” mr dawson says, opening the door and peering out to the rumbling car. “me and the moonstone’ll be waiting for you.”

peter nods and leaves the house. he wishes he could hug his father one last time, but it’ll have to wait until he comes home again.


End file.
